Liquid Persuasion
by M. Prime
Summary: All he'd really wanted was to forget. But, liquid persuasion never really worked that way - and, he isn't entirely sure just exactly how she'd ended up here, with him, but he really wasn't all that certain he cared at the moment. Because, right now, liquid persuasion was the only thing keeping her here - and, it was the only thing that seemed to keep him alive these days [Oneshot].


The rain was cold and unforgiving in league with the wind, which whipped into the city from the harbor. The sky was dark overhead with rolling storm clouds and angry thunder that rumbled across the expanse from the open sea. In the distance against the horizon, lightning cracked in jagged bolts of rage. White-capped waves rolled into the small cove, lapping against the sturdy docks and bank of the city's harbor; causing the anchored vessels to bob amidst the surface with each powerful thrust of the ocean.

The main dredge of the city was practically empty, save the few who dared the elements to either journey home or onto business, none could be sure. Regardless, the ground was slick and deep with thick mud, which made it difficult to walk, and the rain did not improve matters as it drowned the city, unforgivingly. Business windows were either darkened in retreat of the storm, or boarded closed for the pending storm. Signs overhead swayed back and forth in the fierce winds, creaking loudly, while the buildings themselves moaned beneath the storm's presence.

Of course, really, there was only one business to be about on a night like this; when bodies were cold and hearts were lonely, and that business was the business of kings and scoundrels alike. At the end of the street, nestled just before the entrance to the harbor, rested the bawdy and boisterous _Salty Barnacle,_ with windows open and lit and screaming with welcoming pleasures inside. Overhead the door, the sign swayed slowly, its once-familiar lettering all but a faded and wasted-away memory.

What had, at one point, been a front front porch was in sore need of repair, as it was missing sections of board and planks either rotted through or discarded. The steps were lopsided and creaked under the pressure of weight, and the railing was lacking spindles, paint, and promised only splintering airs. The widow shutters, long sense removed, were resting against the building's entrance. The balcony overhead creaked and moaned and swayed with the weight of patrons overhead. Screaming laughter, howling jibes, and lude calls filtered through the thin walls, which trembled with activity. The shatter of glass, the heavy thud of footfalls overhead, and the crash of overturned furniture only added to the dark appeal of the tavern's liveliness.

It had all been intensely familiar as he'd stumbled through the front door in his usual trademark swagger; one foot in front of the other as keen eyes swept over the patrons inside. Of course, instinct propelled him forward, while hesitancy kept him firmly planted in the frame of the door – if there was any chance anyone had anything against him, here of all places, it would be better to get on and find pleasurable company elsewhere lest faced with the unpleasant prospect of old negotiations. But, the coast had been clear some hours earlier, and he'd been beckoned inside by not only the familiar taint of rum in the air, but also the pleasurable crook of a delightful red-head's promising finger.

He'd seated himself near the back, in a single chair, with a promising bottle of liquid courage. The chair had squeaked and shifted as he'd plunked down into it, and the wooden chandelier of candlelight overhead swayed back and forth as he'd taken the first drink and let his head fall back in momentary relief. The tavern was warm with the heat of bodies, alcohol, and companionship; while overhead it burned with fanciful pleasures and other unspeakables. Filtering down the stairs were the whispered promises and dandy's, while overhead sat the hosts thereof. One blonde caught his eye and smiled at him, only to promptly move herself to his bidding.

He listened to the atmosphere, taking in the raucous behavior, while also acclimating himself to the overall existence of the establishment. There was much to be said in a place like this – and, there was much that was left unsaid, too. He watched carefully the occupants and patrons of the establishment, finding himself not overly disgusted with the company, while also not overly impressed. He shrugged it off, however, as he half-heartedly listened to a game of Liar's Dice in the corner, while his eyes watched the barkeep struggle to meet the demand of the patrons lined up for his wares.

The blonde on his knee laughed bawdily in his ear as she chattered on and on about worthless nothings, providing him more with lustful warmth than companionship. What intrigued him more, however, was the quiet figure sitting in the opposite corner from him, who watched the action of the tavern beneath a hat pulled low over his eyes. He hadn't so much as taken a drink of his stein; content instead to watch the goings on, with a rueful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His hands were smothered in thick braces of leather, as were his arms, and his waistcoat was a faded gray. Brown sea-boots, stained maroon breeches, a greasy leather jerkin, a myriad of belts and baldrics, and finally a ash-colored tricorn hat completed the overall look of the observer. He was shorter, given the length of his legs and fit of his boots, and didn't possess and overly imposing frame. Something about him felt off as he noted the man's presence across the room, but he could not quite place it.

The blonde woman – he faintly recalled her name being Charlene – ran her lithe fingers through his dreadlocks, and he closed his eyes to relish the feel of her ministrations. Soon, however, she fell away entirely. All that assailed him was the taste of the crisp and clear salt air, an array of orange and powerful gold hues painted across the expanse of sky, and the crystalline sea outstretched before his beloved horizon.

All that gave way, however, to the vision of his mind, where he could see the outline of her frame; feel the brush of her curls against his skin; hear the rich melody of her voice calling his name in the distance as the snap of sails and crash of the ocean filled his memories. Briefly – ever so briefly – he could feel the atmosphere bristle with the familiar aura of command and poise that he had so come to miss, and his gut stoked with fire when the vision of her brilliant blue eyes seared into the back of his brain. He was suddenly hot, and overwhelmed, and thrown for a staggering loop that he almost fell backwards in the chair. The volcanic heat in his chest traveled southward, down through the abyss that had become his gut, only to finally settle in the parts of him that truly mattered and gave credence to his worst fears.

He was tossed from his remembrances when the vision of her came to a crashing halt; suddenly replaced with the high-pitched praddle and grating snorts of laughter of the physical realm of which he sat – he promptly batted away the blonde's hand and slid her off his knee, sending her away with a sharp look of disapproval and a dismissive flap of his hand. Her glaring hatred bore into him a total of ten seconds when she was swept away with a strong arm around her waist and the lude comment of the hulking man who had come to take his place. She was gone in a swirl of cheap lace and perfume, leaving him, once again, with his companionable rum and wistful memories.

He felt a hot stare of observation digging into him like a blade, and lifted the bottle to his lips to take a long draw. Swallowing the burning liquid, he ran his thumb across his lips to lap up the remnant of drink left behind when he noticed the sailor from before looking at him. He'd pushed the brim of his hat up only slightly, and focused on him intently for a handful of seconds before he got up and signaled for the redhead barmaid to approach.

He watched the observer seat himself slowly, and gesture across the bar in his general director. For a moment, the redhead looked his way, before turning back to her patron and nodding her head in understanding. The sailor, who was more of a pirate than a professional of the sea, slipped her what appeared to be coin, before sending her off with a wave of a flappable hand. She turned sharply on her heel, approached the bar, and snapped her fingers for the keep to hand her a bottle of what appeared to be a top tier selection of rum.

His chest ignited with excited heat as she sashayed over, the neck of the bottle slung lazily through her fingers. In what he counted was five strides she was in front of him; head cocked to the side, lips pursed together, bottle extended to him. The corner of her mouth lifted at his surprised smile, and he accepted the bottle as she jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

"The man in the corner nods his compliments to ya, Cap'n," he was surprised she addressed him with title, and piqued a brow when she did so. With a simper, she added, "If ya need anything else, just holler at me," before she turned from him and marched back into the wave of patrons. She disappeared altogether when his gaze dropped down to the label now in his possession.

He studied it for all of a moment before his eyes snapped up to study the man in the corner. However, to his surprise, no one was there – the man had gone, which prompted him to stand immediately. His eyes frantically scanned the crowd of human beings as he was propelled forward a step, into the crowd, looking for the observer whom had fancied him an _exceptionally_ expensive label of rum.

The world spun for all of two seconds before he halted his advance and plopped back down into the chair. His head was light, and his thoughts were spinning along with the rum, as the sounds of the atmosphere became muted and unclear. He was warm, and felt content – and, when he lifted his previously acquired bottle of rum, he understood why. It was entirely empty, and he hadn't realized he'd finished the entire thing. Any attempts to stand were now, theoretically speaking, out to sea. Pressure arose in his chest from his gut, and he let out a satisfying and deep belch. His head felt somewhat clearer as he swallowed back a thick breath – his tongue felt swollen and thick, and his mouth was dry.

He dropped the empty bottle, and it crashed to the floor beside him, though it went mutedly unnoticed. He inhaled a sharp breath, and for a moment, Captain Jack Sparrow had difficulty believing that he was still conscious. Actually, part of him believed that he was awake, while a large majority of his current state believed that he was in some twisted dream of depravation. He expected for a moment that he would bolt awake, surrounded by the familiarity of his ship, drowning in a pool of inebriation, which was by all rights his usual self.

But, as he closed his eyes again to welcome the pleasant coolness of dark, he could feel the sway of the sea and the familiar moans of ship while the muted sounds of an active crew drifted in the back of his mind. However, the corner of his mouth lifted and his eyebrow crooked at the absolutely _lovely_ memory of purposeful and gentle hands on his face; playing lazily with his hair, tracing the outline of his jaw. In his chest he could feel the melody of familiar songs racing through his blood, as a smile spread fully onto his face – yes. He could still conjure memories of her, though it had been what felt like years, and it was doing _wonders_ for his imagination.

His eyes snapped open and the memory was ripped from his mind at the sudden crash of overturned furniture. He snapped to attention when the game of Liar's Dice exploded into a throng of fists and threatening shouts; steins and plates and dice soaring through the air as patrons scrambled to make way for the fighting players. He, too, hustled out of his chair to dodge the staggering victim of a strong uppercut, who hit the ground with a hard _smack_ before popping to his feet again, unfazed. Clutching the bottle of prized rum under his arm, his gaze filtered outward to the tavern's throng, which was now riled uncontrollable into a riotous hell in an attempt to route a hasty retreat.

In no condition to negotiate and even less condition to fight, he dashed by a pair of sparring fist-fighters to only slide past a man who went down from a punch to the gut. His boots slid across the worn planks of the floor easily, and he jumped over a man who rolled across the floor only to dodge the one going after him. Reaching out to latch a hand onto the bar's edge, he gripped it with white-knuckled strength as if it would save him and keep the world righted, only to lock eyes with the barkeep, who had paused his efforts of rescuing as many labels of alcohol as he could.

He smiled at him weakly, before he scrambled up onto the bar. It had been abandoned, wares and wall, in favor of a loud and feisty brawl. The wenches and barmaids had all but scrambled to the second floor, as men filtered out of the pleasurable rooms to tend to their own fights or their compatriots. Bottles and steins flew, companied with a myriad of jewelry, clothing, blood, and spit as he tip-toed his hasty way across the bar's countertop, rum under his arm.

He dropped off the other end, and lost his balance, staggering to the side a few steps before he righted himself and hurried towards the door. He heard what sounded like a female war cry, and whirled around, only to find that the redheaded barmaid who'd bestowed him with rum had chucked a bottle in his direction with a strong arm. His eyes widened and he dropped, flailing out in a splayed display of cowardice, to his gut. He felt his hat drop off his head.

Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the ceiling which was riddled with stains and other imperfections. Looking to either side, he found his hat, and reached for it – only to have it promptly kicked out of his reach by a stumbling hulk of a drunk. Cursing under his breath, he popped tall, and hustled over in pursuit of his hat. It had never be said that Captain Jack Sparrow was without his beloved hat, and it would never be so repeated as long as he were alive to maintain the rumor.

Pushed against the corner, finally, he dipped to retrieve the article of clothing. Plopping it back on his head, he whirled around to find that the tavern had all but exploded into a chaotic hell of violence. The floor was riddled with blood, liquor stains, splintered furniture and overturned wares, as well as unconscious men. The bar was utterly destroyed in a display of broken bottle and seeping liquids, and he watched the barkeep and maids rush out the front door in abandon. The chandelier overhead bobbed wildly, sending hot wax from burning candlelight to the crowd below. Jack wasn't sure if the crowd was howling in pain, or riot, or overall rage – all he knew was that he was lightheaded and far too drunk to even dare swing a punch in his own defense, and he needed to _move;_ and move _quickly_.

 _The Black Pearl_ was his only haven now; and it promised protected bliss and quiet, where he could finish his rum in relished peace and dwell among his many memories and regrets. Letting out another sharp exhale, he leveled his gaze on the door and looked back to the crowd for a split moment. Inhaling a sharp breath in his nose, he looked down to the prized bottle, and tucked it securely under his arm. His other hand went to inventory his effects – compass, sword, flintlock, scarf. All accounted for, he nodded his own confidence and flattened himself against the wall.

Edging his way to the door, Jack grimaced as he noticed the man across the way, standing in his previous seated spot, took a sharp uppercut to the jaw and hit the ground on his knees, hard. His chin smacked against the wooden floor and immediately, blood seeped from his nose and his lips as he sat unconscious amidst the fluster of chaos around him. His culprit thrust a fist into the air, screamed out a cry of approval, before promptly turning on a heel to go wildly throwing punches back into the chaos.

Jack was content to have no part in the hell around him as the door grew closer and closer. It was left open, probably by the retreating staff, and he could feel the kiss of cool rain and the fresh waft of air on his face. He was within feet of the establishment's entrance when someone came bursting through the front door, flintlock drawn; hand on the hilt of the cutlass at his side.

He froze, and contemplated the stranger in the gray waistcoat and maroon breeches. Rainwater fell from his tricorn hat and dripped onto the floor from every crevice of his clothing; pooling around his feet and making him look darker than he probably was. What once was probably curled brown hair hung limply over his shoulder, dripping onto his waistcoat. His maroon breeches were almost black with water. Rivulets of rain drained from his sea-boots and onto the planked floors of the tavern.

The drunken form of Jack Sparrow widened his eyes as the man looked directly at him from beneath the shadow of his hat, and recoiled away when he took two strong strides towards him. While the man was easily a head shorter than he was, his powerful aura was commanding and dangerous in a way that Jack Sparrow wanted no part of. Instead, however, the man's braced hand thrust out and latched on his arm, and yanked him towards the door in two stumbling steps.

Within a breath and even before he could formulate a response, he was out of the hectic chaos and stumbling to a halt in the pelting rain. The man released his iron-like grip on his arm and thrust him into the night, before all but vanishing into the shadows before Jack had even a moment to think of a comment. He turned on his heel to make a complete circle in hopes of finding his savior, but found no one but the empty streets and swirling storm. Head spinning, he contemplated his solidarity for a jog of a minute, before he set off towards the harbor.

Now effectively soaked, cold, and hungry, his feet hit the salty dock roughly fifteen minutes later as he bumbled around the main stretch of road. His boots were thick with mud, and he was heavy with rainwater as he trudged towards the docked figure of his ship, _The Black Pearl_. It effectively hogged the entire harbor, which didn't ultimately bother him, and its promise of sanction from not only the storm but the night's events swayed any other thought of concern for the matter. Too many other things haunted his concern as he approached his ship – primarily so, what memories would dog him when he boarded.

He managed to swing himself over the bulwark, and stagger to a halt when his boots connected with the deck. He gripped the railing, his eyes darting across the now vacant deck of his vessel, only to find, much to his relief, that there were no bodies lurking about. The ship was cold and void of any stirring life, which was fine by him, and bobbed on the surface of the harbor as the wind fluttered the sails overhead. He marched in the general direction of his cabin, and somehow managed to make his way down the companionway steps to reach the corridor.

He fumbled to the door, and went to unlock it – but, to his astonishment, he found it presently unlocked. Fumbling with the latch only a moment, he could've sworn he had managed to lock it behind him when he'd left, but dismissed the thought altogether with the sudden gratitude that it had been unlocked upon his present arrival. With some difficulty, he managed to shoulder open the door of his cabin and step inside the threshold.

The door bounced off the wall and floated back towards him, but he kicked it open farther and sashayed inside. He plunked the bottle of rum on the desk to his right as he shrugged off one arm of his drenched waist-coat, and managed the other soon after. He draped it over his arm, smoothed it with a hand, and approached the chair sitting at the desk – and paused.

His brow dropped into a furrow. He didn't remember having the chair pulled out from the desk – he _never_ left it out, actually. Most of the time he kicked it back into place, if he ever removed it at all. Usually he stood over the desk, as he never truly had the time to find himself _sitting_ during voyages, but he actually found it more beneficial to stand or pace as he studied his charts and maps. So was the life of a restless pirate, he had always remarked, after Gibbs would practically plead with him to sit and collect his thoughts. He never had indulged the man, and doubt he would soon take to it.

Regardless, it was odd for the chair to be pulled back. There were stranger things, however – he'd been known to make blustering mistakes when he was on a tangent or preoccupied. Shrugging and giving a dismissive snort, he draped the waistcoat over the back of the desk chair, and hunkered down into it for a moment to reach for his boots. After tugging them off, he let them hit the floor in a heap, and glanced across the top of his desk.

It was riddled with overturned empty bottles of rum and trinkets from his voyages, as well as a myriad of rolled maps and charts. A stack of books were pressed up against the wall, volumes of Shakespeare and other assorted works ranging from poetry to history and codex's. A tawdry and faded Bible was amidst the mix, as well as a logbook, and an assortment of personal journals and musings he kept himself. Beside them, a small, opened black chest spilled over with prized emeralds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, gold, and other fancies remained untouched; further littering the desk amidst the sextants and other navigational bobbles.

However, his eyes found the single object of his attention, and he reached for it. Nevermind that it was away from its usual home in the first drawer to his left. That wasn't unusual either – he often took this piece out of its haven in hopes of concentrating or reliving his remorseful guilt, and it wasn't unusual for him to leave it out after carrying it around. He couldn't remember if he'd taken it out before making his way to the tavern, so he dismissed the thought regardless, and worked it in his palm in observational and serene quiet.

It was a small thing, so light and delicate and beautiful, that he was momentarily frightened to touch it just as he was every time he reminisced. He ran his finger over the embedded pearl directly in the center, before the rest of his fingertips slowly ran across the delicate jade teeth. His thumbnail traced the gold filigree embedded into the familiar hair-comb, and his eyes drifted closed.

So these were the memories the _Pearl_ tossed at him when he was alone in the darkness – the memories not of victories at sea, or adventure, nor of plunder or wealth. No. But, instead, this place ghosted the memories of that one victory; that one prize that he had won so long ago, that it pained him to even remember for a moment. A treasure which he had crossed the world to gain, only to have ripped from him by his own doing, to have lost after spending a lifetime of pursuit. He'd had her for the shortest time – he had had that feeling of complete fulfillment and contentment for the _first_ time in his miserable life – and he had squandered it away in a moment of fitful rage and selfishness.

The laughter was so real that it jerked him from his memories and snapped his eyes open, only to be welcomed backed into the _Peal's_ heavy darkness. It seeped into his soul momentarily before he ran his thumb over the sparkling pearl again, only to toss sit back onto the desk before him. He released a heavy and slow sigh, before scrubbing his face with a hand and batting away the trinkets in his hair that dared to fall into his face. Those, too, bore memories that he would soon care to forget, though he could never truly bring himself to abandon.

He managed to stand and unbuckle his braces and baldric, tossing them onto the chair behind him. Stretching his wayward and tired arms over his head, he felt a series of snaps and pops riddle his shoulders, which immediately relieved the tension at the base of his neck. Rolling a sore shoulder, he glanced at the bottle of rum, and reached for it – lifting it to his mouth; he popped the cork off with his teeth, spit it off into oblivion, and downed a strong drink of the promising liquid courage. He set it back down on the desk with a gentle _plunk_ , and ran the back of his hand across his lips.

"Bloody good rum," he mumbled to himself, before stepping towards the four-poster bed in the far corner of the cabin. He rolled his neck as he did so; the floor cold beneath his feet, before he finally plopped onto the side of the bed. Rubbing the back of his neck, he managed a yawn, before falling into the mattress fully with his legs slung over the side of the bed, still. His hat tumbled off his head as he collided with the mattress.

This very room was alive with the feel and breath of her – he could still _feel her_ , as if she'd just left. Her warmth and jovial demeanor still haunted his mind as he sat in the darkness of his cabin. He'd spent many hours with her, here, alleviating her concerns and regaling her with tales of his past. They'd shared much laughter, argued many squabbles, and told many secrets in the darkness of this room – she'd made him feel alive here one too many moments, and he had found himself slowly unraveling in her very presence. Here, in this small cabin, aboard his might and huge-ish vessel, Jack Sparrow had been disarmed in ways that he had never before found himself – he had fallen in love with a good woman, and he had lost her all in the very confinement of this room.

And yet, months after such a costly parting, he could still feel her warmth and lightness. Something about her had been angelic, and true, and pure – something innocent and untouched that had fueled him in ways that he had never before experienced. Just her proximity to him could do things to him that were ungodly. Even now, in just the memory, he was thinking things that would set any man to shame – how many time had his mind spun with fantasies about her? He could hardly breathe thinking about it. It sent his gut plummeting, and his chest constricted with remorseful grief.

He released a slow and deep sigh, resting his head farther back into the mattress. Reaching down to his waist, he felt along his side for the familiar compass, and lifted it. Popping it open with his thumb, he forced himself up and sulked on the side of the bed, watching the face of the device spin in every direction in an attempt to pinpoint just exactly where his heart rested. It took a few moments to settle, and once it did, he rolled his eyes and snapped the compass' lid closed – of _course_ it would point there, to the north; hadn't it pointed to the west when he had consulted it days before weighing anchor in this bloody hell-hole? It was different each day, as he no doubt believed that she was flitting about the Caribbean.

He tossed the compass to his left, and fell back into the mattress again. He swung his legs into bed and situated himself up onto the pillow, not bothering with blankets, but instead lifting an arm to rest under his head. The other draped over his chest, and he crossed his feet at the ankles. Reaching for his hat off to his right, he rested it over his eyes, and fumbled around the mattress for the compass. Tucking it under his left leg, he relaxed fully onto the bed, and eased his breathing. The warm tingle of drunkenness gave way to a pounding between his eyes, and soon he was dozing, the world falling away to dreaminess.

He wasn't entirely sure if he had fallen fully asleep, but the haziness in his mind was enough to bring him to the staunch realization that he was not fully coherent, nor was he unconscious. His surroundings were fuzzy and he was not entirely sure of his state, but he could still hear muted sounds and taste the salt of the air. He floated between sleep and coherency, seemingly forever, until the air of his cabin tightened with awareness and bristled with a familiar command that he was not entirely sure was real. For a moment, the thought had occurred to him that another body had entered the room, because the air moved and was full; he had the thought to wake and make sure that he was well and truly alone, but dismissed it as the pull of exhaustion and the promise of dreams kept him grounded.

His breathing was rhythmic and the drunken tension in his chest and belly released, further sending him spiraling downward into the arms of sleep. The gentle rock of the ship and the sound of water against the hull helped him relax immensely, and a deep yawn escaped him. Releasing a slow and steady breath from his mouth, warmth suddenly cascaded over him, and he hunkered even lower into the mattress, if possible, as darkness welcomed him fully. Something tickled his ear, something that made his brow furrow – something that called his _name._

"…Jack," it was quiet and low, all the sweet things that reminded him of warm rum and its ability to lure him into pleasure that set his blood to lava and his gut to quavering waves. A smile floated onto his face as his dreams began to culminate, sending a hot spike into his gut that began tightening into his core in blissful waves of pleasure, "…I've been looking for you, Jack,"

It was so alive, and so enchanting, that for a moment Jack Sparrow could have sworn he was in reality. Then, something soft brushed against his cheek, and a salty warmth danced behind his ear – something that did dangerous things to his belly. His throat clamped closed, his jaw tightened, and for a split second his heart recognized the voice that filtered through his dreams and into his mind so melodically that it sounded like the lull of the sea against his ship's hull. And, when the air moved to his left, he bolted awake and propped himself up on his elbows.

His hat came tumbling off his face and his eyes bulged open at the sight hovering over the edge of his bed. For a moment, he couldn't believe that he was actually awake, and that _she_ was actually leaning over the side of _his_ poster bed aboard the _Pearl._ It took him a moment too long to fully absorb the gravity of the situation, because his heart began to pound, and heat began to explode throughout his body and travel through his veins. His chest gave way, and his gut all but turned into a churning cavern of molten heat, as he locked gazes with the brilliant blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight which filtered through the cabin's single window.

He was without _words_. And that never – _never –_ happened.

Had his mouth ever possessed any moisture, he wasn't certain. The figure mere feet from him slowly seated herself on the side of his bed, her eyes unwavering from his, as her brunette curls slowly draped over her shoulder in ways that sent his mind reeling. For a moment, he was fairly certain he had clawed holes into the blanket of the bed, because his fingers were digging ferociously into the fabric in a attempt to quell his emotions, which were practically bouncing off the walls. He couldn't bring himself to break eye contact with her, in the fear that he did so, she would vanish altogether.

Blood crashed through his ears like a cannon, making him think that at any given second, his head would explode. He curled and uncurled his toes, making sure the component parts of his body were still functional and alive, as his mind was tossed in every which direction was conceivable to man. It was getting exponentially difficult to breathe, and for a second he wondered if this woman had magical powers to send him to disarmament so quickly. He was sweating profusely, and one of his dreadlocks were caught beneath his elbow and was pulling sorely against his scalp, but he didn't dare move. He wanted – no, he _needed_ – this to be real, and would do nothing of the sort to lose it.

He parted his lips to speak, but found it impossible. He doubted he would ever speak words again. It would be a great while before he had the intelligence to communicate with the rest of the world, and he was fairly sure that he would never again be able to breathe normally. Jack was pretty certain he wouldn't be able to stand for months, either. Never mind sail or manage a crew, he would be worthless for weeks in light of this moment.

Thankfully, he was not required to speak first. "Ah, so you _are_ awake," a smile tugged at the corner of full and plump lips that he so _desperately_ needed to taste as she flicked a curl out of his face, "I was wondering if you were or not. I suppose I should've waited a while longer."

Waited? A while longer? How long had she been _watching_ him? "…T-this is _real_?" He was surprised he had the eloquence to formulate words coherently, much less as a reasonable question, "You're…you're _not_ a dream?"

The soft chuckle that filtered through her lips from her throat sent his mind into a tailspin; a crash of heat exploding into his gut to trickle down into all the places that mattered, and far beyond. She parted her lips to speak and shrugged a shoulder, before her eyes darkened and she leaned forward, closer to him – dangerously close.

"Am I, Captain Sparrow?" the corner of her mouth lifted into a teasing smile, before she reached out and took hold of the front of his shirt, "I've been waiting a long time for this moment, Jack," she said quietly, "a _very_ long time."

"Oh." he swallowed back an extremely nervous breath and sat up, fully. He lifted a hand to place over hers, still not entirely sure of how and where she had come from, but still far too incoherent to truly care. His head was spinning with a mixture of thoughts and the after effects of rum, and he didn't dare question anything more about the way his chest was constricting. In all truth, he didn't care _where_ she had come from – he was boundlessly glad she was, indeed here, and indeed real, and that he hadn't entirely gone off the deep end of sanity's edge. Many times had he envisioned this moment, and this was the farthest possible outcome of his envisioning.

His tilted his head back, breaking eye contact with her, and they dropped closed as he took in a deep breath of the air laced with her scent – it was the familiar mixture of gardenia and salt, and now it was tinged divinely with hints of rum and sweat and heat that sent spirals of approval down his spine. When he opened his eyes, he righted his head to find, to his _very_ pleasant surprise, that she was wearing a white shirt, bodice, breeches, and that she was also barefooted. She brought her one leg up onto the mattress, and tightened her hold on the front of his shirt, before sliding fully onto the bed.

The sight of her practically _spilling_ out of her bodice sent him to shambles, and his mouth parted to speak, and he suddenly had a very difficult time with words. He drug his eyes back up to hers, and with his other hand, he slowly pulled a handful of her curls over her shoulder to spill over her front in a fall of brunette glory. She smiled at him subtly, with lidded blue eyes, and positioned to stand on her knees.

"Oh," she mockingly mimicked, her face brightening as her eyes danced with dark mystery, " _yes,_ Jack," she added slowly, "I've been looking for you – chasing you around the Caribbean in hopes of finding you, after all these long years. And now," she ghosted her fingertip across his hand, and up his arm,"I have you _exactly_ where I want you."

Whatever control he possessed was slowly spiraling out of his control, and his mouth gaped open at her, unsure of the gravity of her statement. His body was set so aflame that he was certain the room would burst into fire around them at any moment. He was getting physically uncomfortable, and his body was trembling with excitement and relief, and his mind was spinning with the memories and fanciful fantasies that he had harbored for all these long years. He could practically feel his eyes darkening; could practically see his own face contorting into a pleasurable smirk as she eased closer to him and teased him with a fingertip touch.

She was inches from him; so close that he could just lean forward and capture her lips in a kiss, when suddenly she pulled away fiercely and swung a leg over his body, now effectively straddling him at the waist and sitting on his lap. Grunting under the added weight, his body convulsed and tightened at the sudden pressure; the tension in his chest pulling into a white-hot knot. He grabbed her by the waist, stilling her movements, and watched the devilish smile creep onto her face as her arms wrapped slowly around his neck; fingers beginning to weave in and out of his dreadlocks.

 _Bloody mother_ it felt so _right._ How had he ever survived with just teasing looks and jovial eyes? He had the sinking thought that everything before this had been a muted sense of reality; that none of it had been real. Or, perhaps, all of it _had_ been real, and this was just a taunting nightmare sent from hell to drive him mad. Either were plausible at this moment, because he was still blindingly drunk, and the room was still slightly spinning. His head fell back as he broke eye contact with her as a bubbling moan crept up into his chest.

He opened his mouth to speak, but found no words for a moment, instead righting his head to rest his forehead against hers. He was within a breath of her now, all but within proper kissing distance and inches that would make all the difference. However, with a gentle tug, she sent his falling back again, only to run a lithe finger from his forehead and down the center of his face, ultimately stopping to brush a gentile thumb across his chapped and weathered lips.

His eyes dropped closed. "I've missed you, love," he croaked, breaking eye contact with her again to reach for the end of a brunette lock to twirl around his finger, "what took you so _long_?" With that, he reached behind her and quickly traced his middle finger up the length of her spine.

She released a sharp gasp, and arched her back, ultimately falling forward into his chest and sending him sprawling backwards against the headboard of the poster bed. It rattled against the ship's wood, shaking the glass window to their left along the wall, and send ribbons of heat crashing through his body. She squared her shoulders and tossed him what initially began as a frustrated look, but slowly fell into that of a satisfied smirk.

He did not remove his hand from her back; instead his fingers laced around the stays of her bodice, before he slowly tugged them loose, and laced them free. Jack didn't dare break the contact he had with her eyes, because he was neck deep in silent combat that he knew she would not relinquish. For years he had longed to stare into her blue pools; for years he had wondered what it would feel like to wage a war of wills against her intellect – she was the only woman alive who could match wits with him and render him speechless without retort. He was certain that she, too, was the only woman on the face of the earth who had ever seen a glimmering glimpse of the raw and unguarded him and had lived to breathe tell of it.

She was completely serious, and crooked a brow suggestively at him. That was enough for him to know that what she was thinking was honest and unabashed, and that she had her own personal reservations as to the length of parting between them. However, she didn't let him know, but instead slowly dropped her hand from his shoulder to run a single fingertip down the outline of his chest beneath the leather jerkin; her feather-like touch sending pinpricks of heat through his musculature before her tracing finally stopped at the cut of his white shirt. She snaked it aside with a teasing finger, and pressed her entire palm over the apex of his heart beating alive within his chest.

Her eyes drifted down to where her hand rested over his chest, and she tipped her head to the side, as if she were a confused puppy instead of the woman in control of this very room. "I let something go a long time ago, without having really understood that it was something that I truly wanted," she looked up at him and shrugged her shoulders, "but now I know what I was truly looking for was right in front of me, all along." She paused, contemplating her words, before she drug her eyes back up to his and pinned him with the truest stare he had ever seen from her.

"I love you, Jack Sparrow," she breathed, "and I could run away forever and I still wouldn't be able to escape you."

He couldn't resist – the beauty of the moment raptured him, and he reached his hand behind her head and took hold of her brunette curls in his hand, gently wrapping them through his fingers in a therapeutic hold. Lifti Lifting them, they spilled over her shoulder and down her front, and he drew them to his face for a breath of their scent, to which he wasn't disappointed. Inhaling a slow and deep breath, he nodded his understanding, and placed his other hand against hers, which was still resting against his chest. A satisfied growl rumbled up from his gut, and he pushed her closer against him, his hand dropping from her curls to still her at the waist.

A smile ghosted his lips and he nodded his understanding at her words. "Welcome back," he growled, leaning forward to kiss the corner of her mouth; his hand lifting from her waist to brace the entirety of his arm against her shoulders, "your presence was sorely missed while you were gallivanting off and away, darling." He paused, briefly, before he leaned in to whisper softly into her ear.

"And as terrifying as it is for me to believe, I love you, though I'll be dead and buried before I ever truly begin to understand to what extent." Then, he kissed her at the base of her neck, and inhaled a breath of her hair which brushed against his nose teasingly.

She teased him with a light chuckle, before resting her head against his as his efforts dropped from the corner of her mouth to the divine spot where her clavicle met her neck. She hitched a gasp when his lips brushed against the tender spot behind her ear, and she practically _ripped_ the dreadlock from his skull when slipped a single finger along the outer muscle of her thigh.

Pulling back from him, she once again laced her arms around his neck, and touched her forehead against his. Smiling against his lips, her hair created a thin veil around them; secluding them from the world and all its dark realities, until finally she ghosted his lips with her own, and dared to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Her hand fell into place along his jaw, and she absently played with his braided goatee, before he couldn't take the bloody _suspense_ anymore and just captured her mouth with his own.

She squealed in surprised delight and bristled against him, but only for half an instant before she relaxed, and fell into the perfect mold of his body. A thousand stars exploded before his eyes, and for a moment, the wind was knocked entirely from his chest as if his lungs would expire from the effort of breath at any given moment. Hundreds messages darted throughout his body – reactions to her touch, and her taste; the way her hand roamed _perfectly_ against the plane of his chest; the way her legs tightened around his waist and her hourglass figure made his head spin. He suddenly couldn't think, or breathe, or function – all he could do was feel, and it was the most bloody perfect thing he could've ever imagined. How he had survived without having done this years before should've made him a _saint._

Before he had any other thoughts or suggestions, she'd somehow managed to work out of the bodice, and dropped it over the side of the bed while simultaneously working him prone onto the mattress. Her free-flowing white shirt surrendered him as if it were a flag of truce, and he was suddenly very transfixed with the way it had very quickly masked her entire figure. Wrinkled, stained, sewn in places, and patched, it was nothing glorious – but, the promise _beneath_. That was a right treasure he couldn't begin to fathom.

The one thing he perhaps admired about her the most was her unabashed confidence – this woman had boggled his mind straight away when he had first met her, and she had continued to blow him out of the water sense he'd gotten to know her. By all rights, she was nothing to overly scream about – her face was plain, her skin was fair, and she was plump compared to others, but she had the most captivating and alluring eyes, and the most genuine smile that he had ever lived to witness. It was staggering that she had lived this long without having been married by some English aristocrat and smothered in all the riches and title that a woman could ever dream of – but not her; no. She was as wild and reckless as the ocean, and twice as unpredictable, which he was sure was why a part of him couldn't live without her. And, she had chosen _him;_ of all the scoundrels she could choose lopping about the Caribbean, she had chosen _him,_ Captain Jack Sparrow.

She tipped her head to the side as she manipulated her hands across his front, staring down at him as her hair enveloped her face. It teased above him, until he couldn't stand it any longer and wrapped a fistful of it around his hand. His index finger moved along her arm as she lazily traced circles on his chest, a smile plastered on her face which could've only matched his own. Her eyes were the jovial sapphires he remembered as she stared down at him, and he released her hair to ease open the cut of her shirt and slip a quick look.

She batted his hand away, and giggled above him, bending at the waist to plant a soft kiss against the hollow of his throat. "Now, now," she whispered softly, "just because I have professed my undying love for you, doesn't mean you get the goods quite _yet._ " She lifted her chin teasingly, adding, "Savvy?"

He sighed and let his head fall back further into the mattress. "You're not meaning to say that you've insinuated yourself into this cabin with me, without a stitch of proper clothing, only to tell me that I _can't_ have the goods quiet _yet_?" He propped himself up on his elbows and crooked a suggestive brow at her, "Would you be so kind as to perhaps elaborate a specific timeframe on that 'yet'?"

A smile broke out onto her face, before she shook her head, and lifted his right arm. Tugging at the knotted lace wrapped against his wrist, she finally released it, and unwound it from his hand. Pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, she swung herself off of him, and the bed. Gracefully correcting to her feet, she bent forward at the waist, and tied her hair into a knot, securing it with the acquired lace wrap she'd taken from him moments before.

He rolled onto his side, supporting his head in his hand, his elbow propped against the pillow. She righted to ball her fists on her hips, and grinned at him, before sauntering across the cabin's floor to the dark corner beyond the window, which was perfectly shadowed in the night. She bent for a moment, before taking something up in her arms, and finally turned to step into the moonlight filtering through the _Pearl's_ cabin window.

Approaching the bed, she dropped the retrieved articles on the floor before him, and eased the corner of her mouth into a smirk.

"Who said anything about going without the proper clothing?" She remarked smartly, before stepping over the acquired goods to slip back into bed on her knees. In a few graceful moves, she was suddenly behind him, and stretched herself out along the length of his body to effectively wrap an arm around his waist.

He gaped a the articles of clothing on the floor – the tricorn hat, brown sea-boots, stained maroon breeches, and tawdy gray waistcoat that seemed so familiar but oh so distant in the back of his mind. Jack's brain spun for a total of two seconds before he leaned over the side of the poster bed to lift the hat off the floor, only to frown disconcertingly at it. She propped her chin on his arm, watching his reaction, a smirk clearly marking her features.

"Seem familiar?" She jibed him, her tone cheeky and teasing.

He looked over to her, before his brow fell into a wrinkle. "You – the pirate –" he gestured to the desk across the room, shaking his head. Balling a fist, he pressed it against his forehead and dropped the hat; falling back into the mattress fully. "You mean to say _you_ were the intimidating figure in the tavern tonight who bought that dandy of a label?"

She propped herself on her elbow, looking down at him with a smile, before she continued tracing lazy circles on his chest. Shrugging a shoulder, she began to finger the end of one of the trinkets in his hair, her face shadowed in the filtered moonlight of the window, but still so gloriously reverent. It took everything in his power not to take her right _then_.

Nodding, she replied casually, "Of course it was me," she rolled her eyes, "I actually was supplying your ample drink throughout the night, believe it or not. Do you really think you would've gotten as much rum as you did with what little silver you had on your person?" She rolled her eyes before flopping down onto her stomach beside him, crossing her feet at the ankles.

He rolled over to face her, his face etched with skeptic surprise. "I am beyond flattered, love, that you would take it upon yourself to see to my well being, but – how did you manage to find me, here of all places?"

She shrugged again, before she set to playing with the end of a curl; twirling and untwirling it around her fingers, lazily. "I heard you'd be making port here some time ago, so I changed routes, and beat you here, only by a couple of days." She waved her hand dismissively through the air, "The rest was fairly simple. I figured you'd go to the _Barnacle_ , since that is where we met. And," she teased him with a sparkling smile, "sure enough – Robert's your uncle, Fanny's your aunt, and there you were; just as predicted."

He couldn't help but smile. "And of course, you and your genius figured that, with enough liquid persuasion, you would be able to weasel yourself back into my life just like," he snapped his fingers for emphasis, "…that?"

She snapped her fingers, too. "Just like that," she nodded firmly.

He shook his head. "Aye, love," in one quick instant, he swung himself over her and supported himself on his knees, staring down into her beautiful face enveloped in brunette spirals that sent his mind spinning in ways that were dangerous. He pinned her hands above her head, and relished in the way she was giggling and grinning up at him, before he bent to plant a ghostly kiss on her lips that left him craving the savory flavor of her mouth.

"You figured correct," he replied with a husky growl in his chest, "and I couldn't be more pleased with it."

She giggled again, her brow crooking suggestively, before her eyes darkened with that maddeningly powerful tease that drove him up the wall both ways and back. "That liquid persuasion did the trick, eh?"

Then, she pulled herself up to capture his mouth in a kiss, and he figured that was all she needed to gain her answer.


End file.
